


Les saisons

by Mistflyer1102



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Side USUK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistflyer1102/pseuds/Mistflyer1102
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes all one needs to do is seize the moment. Sometimes all one needs is a little nudge, a little time. Love is patient, and doesn't always happen overnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. L’automne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Life_on_Vega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Life_on_Vega/gifts).



Francis Bonnefoy still remembered the first thing that had truly captivated him about the New World all those years ago, when he first arrived.  It had been early autumn and the sharp cold winds were already promising an extremely cold first winter.  Remembering the mistakes he’d heard that _Angleterre_ made while (trying) to settle farther south, Francis and his men had begun to immediately build strong homes to brace themselves against the impending snow. 

Francis, along with two of his subordinates, were searching through the forest, silently marking the sturdy oaks when they came to a rocky overhang that overlooked a large valley between three nearby mountains.  To his surprise and delight, the carpet of forest below was in a great swath of color, a brilliant and fiery combination of reds, gold, and yellows.  The sight below had taken away Francis’s breath: while Europe _did_ have its moments of beauty in the fall, farms, towns, and the occasional church would create a break in the scenery.  But here, in the New World, it was clean and unbroken underneath a startling blue sky.

The scenery still was beautiful, hundreds of years later and in hidden locations.  Francis had located a new one, while walking alongside his one-time charge, Canada.  The two personifications were walking on one of the old trails that Canada had found last year behind his house in northern Quebec.  Canada’s faithful polar bear, Kumajirou, was lumbering along ahead, albeit off the trail; Francis could still see the polar bear’s white fur through the foliage.  There weren’t that many deciduous trees this far north as compared to the regions closer to Canada’s southern borders, but Francis didn’t mind.  He was simply enjoying the peace that both the forests and Canada seemed to have. 

He glanced at his companion, who, like him, was dressed casually in jeans and an insulated jacket along with a scarf and gloves.  Francis smiled sadly when he was once again reminded of how much he had missed while Canada was growing up.  Canada had been in his early teens when Francis was forced to leave him in February of 1763, at the conclusion of the Seven Years’ War.  When they reunited in France during World War One, not long after the outbreak of war, Francis had been caught off guard by how much Canada had grown.  He was almost as tall as Francis now. 

_Do not dwell on the past, not when you have him here with you now._

Canada seemed to sense at that moment that Francis was watching him, because he looked away from Kumajirou toward the older nation.  “Did you say something?” he asked, looking worried at the thought of having missed something important. 

Francis smiled.  “ _Non Mathieu_ , I was merely enjoying your company,” he replied, absently reaching out and pushing back some loose hair, mindful of the errant curl.  “It has been what, six months since we last saw each other?”

Canada nodded, smiling faintly.  “G8 conference in Madrid, middle of April.  Someone had tampered with the room assignments in the hotel computer the day everyone was scheduled to arrive, and the first two days and nights were full of arguments as everyone tried to switch rooms and roommates at the same time.  Then the fights started in the middle of the conference about who did it, and Germany called it off early because we weren’t getting anything done anyway.”  He raised an eyebrow at Francis and said, “I did notice that you and a couple others weren’t volunteering any information about possible suspects.  You wouldn’t happen to know who did it, would you?”

Francis pretended to mull over the question.  “Let’s say that a little bird told me that it was going to be hard to convince the others that they couldn’t pin the prank on just _one_ individual,” he said, giving a small conspiratorial smile.

“Oh, did that little bird happen to have yellow feathers and an albino master?” Canada teased lightly, dark blue eyes bright with mischief.

France smirked.  “Depends who is asking.  If it is Switzerland or _Angleterre_ , the answer is no.  If it is you, well, then the answer is perhaps.”  Francis caught Canada’s free-swinging hand and squeezed it gently.  “Did you have any complaints about _your_ new roommate?”

“Nope, not at all.  Arthur wasn’t happy at all when he found out about the new arrangement, but at that point my brother showed up and dragged him away, so my roommate was spared his ire.”  Canada said, letting go of Francis’s hand so that he could balance himself while carefully sliding down a small slope of rocks.  Francis opted for the safer route of where the trail thinned but wound around the rocks.  He took Canada’s gloved hand again at the bottom as they continued walking.

“Well, that satisfies your roommate’s curiosity as to why _Angleterre_ didn’t kill him after the second day,” France said, gently pulling Canada closer with a slight smile.

The Canadian laughed quietly before looking ahead for Kumajirou, who, unfortunately had either already bounded ahead and out of sight, or accidentally adopted his master’s tendency to disappear.  Knowing the bear’s level of energy and ‘playfulness’, Francis was fully prepared to assume the former.

As Canada released Francis’s hand to go chase Kumajirou, Francis recalled his less than favorable first impression with the polar bear.

He couldn’t recall if it was the first winter in the New World or not.  He just knew that it had been an early one.  A few Native Americans had been showing Francis and two subordinates how to trap beaver in the dead of winter when they all became aware of a small polar bear cub watching them carefully through the leafless trees.  The natives had warned the French away from the bear; it was a spiritual guardian for the child spirit of the northern lands.  The French subordinates took the warning to heart, crossing themselves against the potential evils, but Francis’s curiosity was piqued.  Natives often mistook personifications as spirits because they not only aged slowly, but there was always the subtle spiritual connection between the personification and his or her people.

When searching for the ‘child spirit’, Francis had kept a careful eye out for that spiritual guardian, not wanting to aggravate it unnecessarily.  Unfortunately for Francis, that ‘spiritual guardian’ was very much real, as he had the misfortune of discovering when the bear attacked him from behind, claws and teeth bared.  Francis probably would have maimed or killed it too, had his sharp eyes not caught sight of a bundle of furs topped with fair hair huddled in a patch of ferns. 

Francis eventually won over both little Canada and Kumajirou with his secret weapon: food.

Mindful of the several jagged rocks on the trail before him, Francis breathed in the fresh clean air as he approached the clearing, which had a small lake surrounded by leaves.  Leaves floated on the water’s surface, rippling as Kumajirou splashed around in the shallows nearby.  Canada was sitting nearby on a large rock that jutted out into the water, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs as he watched Kumajirou pause long enough in his play to chase a few water birds. 

When he saw Francis climbing onto the rock, Canada scooted over to give him room to join.  The two sat in companionable silence, and Francis closed his eyes to enjoy the faint breeze.  He smiled softly when he felt Canada scoot closer and press against him as though he was a young colony again seeking warmth. 

The smile waned a little at that thought.

_There’s too much history between us for there to be a different relationship now instead a fraternal one._

“I used to come down here frequently when Arthur was away.  Whenever things got overwhelming, whether it was domestic or foreign issues, I’d sneak away from the government officials and come down here to take a step back from it all until I trusted myself to think rationally again.  The nice thing about it is that this is on my house property, but it’s not on a map.”  Canada glanced at Francis and said, “My brother may suck at diplomacy, but he does know how to read a map, and I’d rather he didn’t find this place.”

Francis quietly regarded him before taking his hand and softly kissing the back.  “ _Merci, Mathieu_ , for allowing to visit your sanctuary,” he murmured, his lips barely brushing the skin.

Canada flushed a light shade of scarlet, but still smiled nonetheless.

_Rrroawr!_

The two nations jumped when Kumajirou bellowed in frustration, sending water flying everywhere as he charged after a flurry of panicked waterfowl.  “Kuma apparently has gotten into the habit of chasing birds since he can’t chase cats, they’re too fast for him.  He went after a couple barn swallows last week.  I talked to a park ranger two days before you got here, and he says it’s not normal polar bear behavior,” Canada said, leaning back on both hands as they watched Kumajirou stalk another flock of unsuspecting waterfowl. 

“Mm.  But it’s not normal polar bear behavior to live with a human either, is it not?” Francis pointed out with a teasing smile.

Canada snorted.  “Depends on the case.  But Kuma’s been with me since for- KUMA!”

Francis jumped when Canada abruptly yelled, forever a rare occurrence for him.  Francis drew his legs closer to his body for safety as Canada stood up, stepped over him and then jumped off the rock, landing with a _splash_ in the shallow waters below.  “No Kuma, that’s _not_ food…” Canada grumbled as he went after a misbehaving Kumajirou, who was running away from him.  After lowering his arm, which he’d used to shield himself from the splash, Francis got a good look at what the two others were doing. 

Canada was more or less chasing Kumajirou around, the latter of whom was careful to keep a fair distance between himself and his master even though he didn’t go deeper into the water.  Something large, black, and feathery was in the bear’s mouth.

_Aha._

Francis calmly stood up and carefully slid down the rock and onto the grassy banks before he started walking toward the bear’s intended path.  Francis may have not been there while Canada and Kumajirou were growing up under English rule, but he still knew the tricks to getting both to calm down, techniques that didn’t involve food.  As Canada began attempting to corral the bear, Francis moved in front of Kumajirou, reminding himself that the polar bear was easily several hundred pounds heavier than he remembered. 

For Kumajirou, the immediate threat was behind him, not in front.  He slowed down as he approached Francis, warily eyeing the Frenchman.  The bear could hear a semi-familiar song coming from the Frenchman, almost as though it were from a half-forgotten lullaby.  The sound was soothing, and Kumajirou finally slowed to a stop, his head dangling near the Frenchman’s hands, the feathery prize still caught between his teeth.

The second the bear’s jaws slackened, Francis deftly reached forward and eased the trapped bird out.  He was already standing up and backing away when the jaws snapped shut again, but before Kumajirou could reclaim his lost dinner, Canada pounced.  Francis examined the bird while Canada wrestled an enraged Kumajirou back, and was pleased yet surprised to find that the bird had survived the attack after all.

“What kind of bird is it?” Canada asked, coming up to Francis.  “Oh… a Common Loon, or that’s what we call them in North America at least.  I think you guys call them the ‘Great Northern Diver’.  It’s real name is the Great Northern Loon though,” he said, carefully taking the red-eyed, black-and-white feathered bird from Francis.  He smiled, and said, “I remember when I was little, you and your men thought that the loons were moaning ghosts.”

“Ah, _Mathieu,_ we were newcomers to your lands,” Francis chided gently as he studied the bird for the expected injuries; there was blood coming from the teeth marks in its body, and one of the wings was sticking out at an unnatural angle.  “We could probably save it from death, we’d need to return to your house first.”

“Yeah, Al’s labeled them as endangered in his country, and wants me to help protect them,” Canada said, carefully handing the bird back to Francis so he could pull off his red-and-white patterned scarf.  He smirked.  “It’s kinda ironic, for me at least, that Alfred wants to protect these birds when they created one of his biggest fears.”

Francis frowned.  “How so?” he asked, helping Canada wrap the loon in the scarf by holding its legs and uninjured wing against its body.  The bird had recovered from its shock and was now squirming in Francis’s gloved grip.

Canada turned pink in embarrassment.  “When Al and I first met as colonies under Arthur’s rule, we were living in a one-floor house near what is New Hampshire today, near Lake Winnipesaukee.  We got into a fight and he won in the end because he played on Arthur’s sympathies.  So I was mad and told him some of the ghost stories from my native peoples.  Later that night, I couldn’t sleep but I could faintly hear the loons from the lake, and, well, Kuma and I snuck out, he found one, and I brought it back and left it underneath Al’s bedroom window.  I was in the neighboring room but I could still hear it loud and clear all night long.”

“I take that _Amérique_ didn’t handle it very well?”

Canada allowed himself a nasty grin. “He’s afraid of ghosts now, isn’t he?”  He stifled a snort and said, “Even to this day he doesn’t know what really happened.”

Francis chuckled as he tucked in the ends of the scarf, which was now wrapped around the loon.  America may be often scatterbrained and Canada may be often overlooked, but both were extremely devious when it came to revenge and they had idle hands.  “Remind me never to cross you, _Mathieu,”_ he whispered in a low voice, enjoying the slight blush spreading on Canada’s face.

Canada just nodded mutely.

By the time the two nations returned to Canada’s house, the loon was crying mournfully while half-heartedly struggling against its confines.  It really was a beautiful bird, with the white neck and collar contrasting nicely with the black-feathered head and the body of black feathers flecked with white.  Steady red eyes carefully watched Canada and Francis’s hands, briefly struggling again when the two nations entered the house.  Canada led Francis to the living room, which looked out toward the woods.  Francis waited patiently for Canada to clear off the living room table and place a white sheet down, and while he waited, he crooned in soft French to the agitated bird, which was trying harder than ever before to escape.  After a few moments of whispering though, Francis was pleased to find the bird calming down.

“Here, give her to me,” Canada said, offering his hands.

“Her?  Are you sure it is a female?” Francis asked as he carefully handed the wrapped bird over.

“Yeah.  I just know,” Canada replied, sitting down on the couch and placing the bird gently on the covered table. 

Francis just nodded, pulling up a chair so that he was sitting on the opposite side of the table from Canada.  Something he had noticed over time about the North and South American countries was that not only were they attuned to their peoples, but to their animals as well, more so than the European nations.  Francis suspected it was that way because the North Americans had had a relatively calmer upbringing compared to the Europeans, who seemed to be at war every other five years in those early decades. 

Canada’s brow furrowed in concentration as nimble fingers soothed the loon enough to enable better access to the injuries.  Every now and then the uninjured wing would flap up in Canada’s face as though to startle him so he would let go.  A small smile of gratitude flitted across his face when Francis leaned over and began stroking the bird gently, slowly reducing the bird’s squirming.  Behind Canada and through the bay windows, Francis could see Kumajirou digging in the soft soil, leafy debris flying everywhere.

It was confusing.  Canada was no longer the little brother he remembered taking care of, he had grown so much both mentally and physically to the point where Francis barely recognized the nation before him.  But whenever the two were in the houses they used to share, Francis was assaulted with memories of little Canada.  It was getting to the point where Francis didn’t know whether to treat Canada like a younger brother or… something else.

It didn’t help either that every time he was in close proximity with Canada, his imagination started to run away to places where one did not usually think about brothers.  The temptation had been particularly strong in Madrid, during the G8 conference when the two were together before and after meetings.

“Ah, _Mathieu,_ I have been wondering something,” Francis casually asked as Canada began to set the broken wing.  The other briefly glanced up to acknowledge Francis, but was distracted almost immediately when the loon flapped the uninjured wing into his face again.  Taking that as an invitation to continue, Francis said, “How… how have you been these last few decades?  And I’m not asking about your people, I’m asking about _you._ ”

Canada shrugged.  “Okay, I guess.  Mexico has been showing me what I can get away with doing since hardly anyone notices me during the North American meetings.”  He snorted, and then said, “Even if I _showed_ you, you still wouldn’t believe some of the stuff that Izzy and Al pulled off during his isolationist years.”

“ ‘Izzy’?” Francis echoed.

“Isabella.  Er, Mexico,” Canada clarified.  “Anyway, she and Al stopped being co-conspirators after they fought over Texas and she lost.  She showed me some of her tricks as well as Al’s.  Half of them are useless anyway since I’m technically no longer Arthur’s colony.  But then again, I don’t mind being in the Commonwealth.  It’s one more meeting I have to attend though; Arthur is forever closely monitoring what we’re doing.  Al says it’s because he has way too much free time and doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“Ah, but that is where your brother would be useful, if you truly wanted to distract _Angleterre_ ,” Francis said in a knowing tone, and Canada laughed.

“Yeah, I might need his help for getting out of the next one, Arthur’s going to be extremely stressed out because he has a busy summer next year.  The other thing is that there’s this nation that I… sort of really like and I’m pretty sure that Arthur doesn’t like this nation very much and vice versa,” Canada said, turning a slight shade of pink.  “I want to talk to the nation soon, but I can’t when Arthur is breathing down my neck.”

“ _Oh?_   And who is this lucky nation?” Francis asked, smirking a little. 

“I… I can’t tell you right now, I kinda want to talk to the nation first.”  Canada’s hands accidentally slipped and the loon immediately tried to escape.  Unfortunately for her, her path led straight into Francis, who caught the flailing bird and gingerly handed her back to Canada, who promptly went back to work on the unfinished splint, fixing what had been damaged in the escape attempt.  Finally Canada said, “I was curious, but do you have any advice on how to broach the subject with the nation?”

Francis paused to think.  “Does he or she know of these feelings?”

“No.  The nation knows I exist, but I’m worried that the nation might still see me as a ‘child’ so to speak,” Canada replied. 

“Hmmm.  Perhaps the next time you see him or her, as soon as you have the opportunity speak up.  Act spontaneously, and seize the moment while you can.  If you lose your nerve, then you might lose the nation as well,” Francis replied, squashing the minute flash of jealousy that had unexpectedly risen. 

“Ah, okay.  Thank you.”

A semi-awkward silence settled of the two of them, during which Francis forcefully distracted himself by watching the loon while Canada finished with the splint and double-checked her bandages to make sure they were secure.  “She will have to stay here while she heals,” Francis said.  “Extensive transportation could slow down the healing process.” 

“Okay.  I can set up a room where she can rest and heal until she can fly again.  I’ll Kuma-proof the door too, that shouldn’t be too hard at all,” Canada agreed as the loon settled down, red eyes blinking as she studied her new surroundings and the two tall creatures on either side of her.  It took her a few moments before she slowly struggled to her feet.  Settling her uninjured wing against her body, she began to take her first hesitant steps across the covered tabletop.  “She needs a name though,” Canada said, leaning back as the loon paused at the table edge before turning around. 

“ _Oui_ , she has quite the warrior’s spirit,” Francis said, watching as the loon paused to look out the large bay windows.  Kumajirou had yet to spot her for the second time that day; there was something in the dirt that was more interesting at the moment.

Canada was silent for a moment.  “How about Jeanne?”

Francis paused before arching an eyebrow at Canada, whose face was a picture of open and genuine curiosity as he waited patiently for Francis’s approval or rejection.  Francis couldn’t remember if either he or _Angleterre_ had ever said anything about the Jeanne that Francis remembered (and still missed dearly).  If not, and Canada truly didn’t know the story of Jeanne d’Arc at all, then it was a very unnerving coincidence.  “It sounds like a fine name,” Francis finally said, smiling to mask his sudden inner turmoil; while it could have been a coincidence, there was something off about the timing of Canada’s suggestion in the grand scheme of the conversation.  Perhaps it was the lack of the hesitation when Canada suggested the name?  Either way, it left Francis feeling unsettled.

Canada beamed, and Francis somehow knew that he’d made the correct move, not turning Canada down.

Later that night though, after both Francis and Canada had retired to their respective bedrooms, Francis could still hear Jeanne’s haunting calls from her room, which was down the hall from Francis’s bedroom.  She sounded as though she were grieving yet calling for something… a mate perhaps?  Or was that merely her version of a battle cry, designed to frighten her enemies into submission before she fought her way back to freedom?

_Or have you somehow returned, my dear Jeanne, to fight for me once more?_


	2. L'hiver

_Act spontaneously!_

Those two little words continued to torment Matthew long after France had left; he had been visiting just for the week after all.  Despite advancements in travel and communication since his colonial days, it was still painful to watch France leave without ever knowing for sure if he would ever come back, and if so, when.  The long years of separation had moved Francis in Matthew’s mind from the brotherly relationship to the close friend position, something challenged when an irritated Arthur kept France at bay during World War One. 

But then something changed after World War Two.  Matthew had stayed with France frequently to help with the reconstruction process, and somehow, he’d fallen for the French nation during then.  At first, he tried to ignore it: Arthur’s warnings and Alfred’s stories (both good and bad) made Matthew think twice before saying anything.  But it was the little things – France’s natural charm, the mischievous streak, the honesty in his eyes, his easygoing nature at times – that drew Matthew in and kept him there.

He was still second-guessing himself as he stood in France’s chateau on the countryside not far from Orléans, staring across the darkened landscape.  Out of the massive windows in the opulent living room, Matthew could see the city lights on the northern bend of the river Loire, bright pinpricks near a line of black glass.  France had taken Matthew into the city twice already, both when the days had been unusually warm for December.  Matthew hadn’t missed the way France had seemed to drift off into the past even though it had just been for a few moments.

Matthew wasn’t oblivious to the atmosphere like his brother was, and knew the significance of Orléans’s history to France, both the country and personification.  He felt grateful that France allowed him into a special place of his past.

“ _Mathieu,_ I am glad you were able to come for the holidays,” France said, appearing out thin air next to Matthew and wrapping an arm around Matthew’s waist, drawing him closer.  A glass of wine was in his other hand; reminding Matthew of his neglected glass.  “I didn’t get a chance to ask when you arrived, but how are things back in North America?”

“Cold,” Matthew replied, and started laughing when he felt France chuckling.  “Seriously though, things are fine.  Al’s boss bogged him down with a ton of paperwork since Black Friday, so he didn’t have time to get his party organized in time this year.  I think Arthur had a hand in that though, he was in a good mood last time I saw him,” he said, sipping his wine.  “Jeanne is doing fine, I think.  I talked to a park ranger, and a vet checked her over.”  He fell quiet and then said, “They don’t think she’ll make it.”

There was a soft _clink_ as France set the wineglass down somewhere behind him.  Then two arms wrapped around his waist and Matthew closed his eyes as France drew him into a warm and comforting embrace.  He silently relished the sense of peace the gesture brought.  “ _Mathieu_ , everything will turn out all right in the end, I promise,” the Frenchman murmured, his lips lightly brushing against the back of Matthew’s neck. 

Matthew swallowed; a little nervous yet secretly thrilled at the intimate contact.  France probably didn’t mean it that way, but it still felt nice to pretend.  “I know it will,” Matthew said, remembering in the nick of time that France had spoken and was likely waiting for an answer.  “My secretary, you remember him, right?  He’s agreed to watch her while I was away.   He said he would call if anything happened, and he has the vet’s number too, just in case.”

“Is he watching Kumajirou also?” France asked.  His voice was muffled by Matthew’s hair.

“Yeah.  He likes Kuma, and I’m guessing Kuma likes him back since he hasn’t tried to run away yet.”  Matthew still remembered the last time Kumajirou had run away from a caretaker; the polar bear had ended up in Toronto at a wildlife reserve, and it had taken _a lot_ of pulling strings to get him back. 

“Is that all that troubles you, _Mathieu?_ ” France asked, picking his glass up again and moving to stand next to him again.

 _I’m not ready yet to tell you everything_.  “Yeah, that’s all,” Matthew said, giving France a shy smile.  “Thank you very much for having me over for the holidays.”

“Ah, you are welcome.  I do enjoy your company very much,” France said, flashing one of his charismatic smiles, the ones that always drew a smile and a heart flutter from the Canadian.  “Now come, dinner is ready.”

“What did you make?” Matthew asked as he followed France into the dining room. 

France didn’t immediately answer, just offered a little secretive smile before gesturing for Matthew to sit down.  “I’ll be right back, I need to check on something in the kitchen and get our dinner,” he said as Matthew sat down in his usual place at the table – France’s right side, next to the head.

Matthew sighed when France left the room, finding himself right back where he started earlier that night: unsure about whether to bring this up with France or simply back off and hold his peace.  This may have not been the first dinner he’d had with France on this trip; he’d already been here for a week, and Christmas was two days away, but something felt different tonight.  Whether that was a good sign or not, Matthew didn’t know.  He just had to get over his nerves and make the first move.  He wasn’t sure if France would ever move first if at all, but he would never know what would happen if he didn’t do _something_.

Matthew resisted the urge to face-palm his forehead.  He was getting just as bad as Alfred when it came to communicating his feelings with a potential significant other.  And that was saying something. 

France (thankfully) didn’t seem to notice anything amiss when he returned with dinner: roasted lemon rosemary chicken with petits pâtés a la sage and roasted vegetables.  He set the plate down before reaching over to the nearby cabinet for a bottle of wine; a favorite, Matthew noticed.  He smiled as France filled both their glasses before sitting down again.

“To good health,” France said, raising his glass.

“To new starts,” Matthew replied, raising his own glass and fervently hoping that France hadn’t detected the slight blush that was probably on his face.

France merely smiled enigmatically before they clinked glasses.

Dinner brought back plenty of memories of more recent times, when France was close to complete recovery after World War Two.  Matthew had sensed a subtle change in his one time mentor after the war’s end, and tried to help where and when he could.  Sometimes, he found, all he could do was simply provide company to the weary French nation and nothing else.

“What is on your mind, _Mathieu?_ ” France asked, catching Matthew’s attention.  He tilted his head with a smirk and said, “ _Amour_ , perhaps?”

Matthew gave a small, embarrassed laugh, mentally smacking his head against a wall.  He’d forgotten that France was empathically attuned to the emotions of others, and was quick to pick them up.  “Ah, yeah, sort of,” Matthew replied, the end of his sentence disappearing into an embarrassed mumble.  “Nothing important really though.”

Judging from the widened smirk on France’s face, not only did the Frenchman _not_ believe Matthew, but was now interested.  “You know, this reminds me.  Do you recall that one conversation we had back in October, about that one nation you wanted to approach but weren’t quite sure how to?”

 _I was hoping you wouldn’t bring that up._   “Yeah, I remember.  What about it?” Matthew asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.

“Did anything ever come of it?” France asked, his tone easily matching Matthew’s.

“Um, not yet.  I haven had a chance to talk to him about it.  Yet,” Matthew admitted.  “I mean, I’m not actively avoiding him, I just haven’t had a chance to talk to him about that particular topic yet.”

France arched an eyebrow.  “This mystery nation isn’t _Angleterre_ , is it?” he asked warily, leaning back in his seat.

It took Matthew a few seconds to register what France said.  “Wh- no!  No, I do _not_ see Arthur like that, he – he’s a _brother_ to me!  Besides, Al would _kill_ me before invading my country again if he thought I was a serious threat to his ‘Special Relationship’ with Arthur!  No… just, no,” Matthew said, shaking his head vigorously.  “I never saw-”

“ _Mathieu,_ I rather quite suspect the opposite, considering your vehement denial,” France said comfortingly yet smiling at the same time.  “It is all right.  I saw it happen with _Amérique_ _,_ the stronger the denial…”

“But France!” Matthew protested, looking horrified.

France broke down in laughter, a flicker of an unknown emotion crossing his eyes so quickly Matthew thought he was imagining things.  “ _Désolée_ _, Mathieu._   I’m sorry, I’m just teasing you now,” France said, still laughing slightly.  Wiping his eyes, he said, “Now let’s finish dinner so that I can treat you with dessert.”

Matthew laughed a little along with France, but couldn’t help but tense up at the mention of ‘dessert’.  It took him a few minutes to mentally shove England’s horror stories and numerous warnings to the back of his mind so that he could finish his dinner in peace. 

After they finished, the two moved to the living room to enjoy dessert – French Canadian crepes – in front of the fire.  Matthew felt pleasantly warm and sleepy, and was rather content snuggled up against France.  The thick sweater France was wearing was comfortable for Matthew to lean on, and the elder nation seemed fine with the arrangement.  France hummed a soft lullaby that Matthew didn’t recognize but found soothing all the same.  In fact, if Matthew closed his eyes now, France would probably allow him to stay there for a little while.

Everything was going well until Matthew became extremely aware of France’s hand that was lazily toying with a few strands of his hair, mindful of the errant curl.  Which in turn reminded him of his earlier dilemma. 

“What is wrong, _Mathieu_?   Tell me, so I can help you fix it,” France murmured into his hair.

“What makes you think something is wrong?” Matthew asked in a sleepy tone.

“I felt you tense up a few minutes ago.  Please, let me help you.”

Matthew twisted in his seat slightly to look up at France, and was slightly startled to find France already looking down at him, concern filling his blue eyes.

For a second, neither nation said anything.

_Act spontaneously!_

_It’s now or never._

Matthew plucked up his courage, leaned up, and kissed France. 

Almost as soon as their lips made contact, Matthew felt the older nation stiffen.  His heart went into overtime as his mind raced to figure out what just happened and why he was panicking: had he overstepped some invisible boundary and completely wrecked their friendship?  Of course, this wasn’t taking any political consequences into account (not to mention that Arthur was going to _murder_ him (and possibly France too) after he heard about this), and the countries that had alliances with both France and Matthew were probably in jeopardy now…

Matthew began to pull away, fully prepared to blame his behavior on the alcohol.

To his surprise, France merely wrapped a hand around Matthew’s neck, stopping him.  Matthew only managed to get a surprised ‘erp!’ out before France smoothly pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, effectively cutting off anything else that Matthew may or may not have been about to say.  Matthew remained absolutely frozen for a second before he tentatively responded, carefully placing his hands on France’s shoulders while moving with France, giving the Frenchman better access to his mouth and neck.

Matthew’s eyes fluttered closed as he felt France’s hands running gently up his sides, could hear his heart stuttering as his senses struggled to cope with the overwhelming sensations.  He hesitated, before letting himself slowly sink deeper into the pleasant sensations.

He didn’t even realize he was running out of air until France pulled away but rested his forehead lightly on Matthew’s, his hands still against Matthew’s sweater.  For a moment, neither nation said anything.

France finally spoke.  “ _Je_ _suis désolé_ _, Mathieu…_ I… I cannot,” he whispered, his voice coming out as soft puffs of warm air against Matthew’s sensitized skin.  “Not to you.”

“I understand.”  What else was there to say that didn’t betray his turbulent emotions?  “I-I should probably go to bed now, had a bit too much to drink tonight.”  Matthew’s words sounded feeble to him.  He could only imagine how they sounded to France.  At least he had his excuse prepared this time.

France nodded before gently moving away, mindful not to touch Matthew as he did so.  Matthew meanwhile was careful not to look France directly in the eye until he’d had a chance to mask the unexpected hurt and disappointment.  He stood up once he was able and _then_ turned around to face France.  “Um, good night then.”

“ _Bonne nuit_ ,” France replied, a small smile flitting across his otherwise expressionless face. 

Matthew smiled awkwardly before turning and walking around the couch, picking up his empty wine glass in the process.  He left the glass in the kitchen before heading up the stairs to the guest room.  It seemed a bit bigger and lonelier than Matthew remembered it being this morning, but more importantly, it felt colder than before.

Cold that had nothing to do with the steady snowfall outside.

* * *

Something was wrong. 

She could feel it in her hollow bones.  There had been a steady thrumming sensation, one that had woken her up a few minutes ago, spread through her body and wings, silently urging her to take flight and soar to the battlefield, to assess the damage and turn the tide of war.

A battle had been fought, but she couldn’t see a clear winner or loser: a stalemate perhaps? 

She couldn’t tell for sure, not here in this darkened prison.

Oh, there was a window all right, but she could not see much, just a shaft of weak sunlight that illuminated various odd-looking objects and the pure white form of the creature that had attacked her and weakened her.  The creature was fast asleep on the floor in the same spot as usual; right next to the closed door as though waiting expectantly yet patiently for someone.  It was unhappy.  It couldn’t have her, but it couldn’t have its master either.  Its master had left both the bear and her in the care of a temporary master.

But something was wrong.

She tried to spread her wings and fly, but to her frustration and fear, she found that she could not.  Her wings were bound as though phantom ropes kept her pinned.  Panic set in her heart; she was powerless to fight, powerless to flee. 

She let out a haunting cry of distress for someone who would never come, someone who failed to save her from a betrayal that spelled and paid her end.   She could not escape – how many times had she tried? – but her efforts were in vain.

Eventually a man showed up, alerted by her cries, and started (tried) to soothe her, speaking to her in soft tones in a language she did not recognize at first, but then realized that it was the enemy’s tongue, or at least a form of it.  As though sensing her growing agitation, the speaker switched to her native language, French, and she began to calm down again. 

She would grow strong.  All she had to do was wait.

Then she could escape this prison and fight once more.


	3. Le printemps

In theory, time was supposed to be the best medicine for an aching heart.

Matthew found that the easiest way to handle the rejection (for him at least) was to simply pretend as though the kiss never happened.  The rest of his trip with France felt as though it had gotten back to the prepared script, recovering from the deviation that was the kiss.  Matthew could have easily convinced himself that the kiss really didn’t happen if it weren’t for the subtle changes in France’s behavior: the guarded smiles and the careful avoidance of physical contact.  The two still had fun for the remainder of the trip of course, but when Matthew returned home and collected Kumajirou and Jeanne, he found that while he did miss France, he didn’t quite have the heart to call him.

Matthew _thought_ he was careful over the next few months to act as though nothing had happened, but Arthur evidently caught on anyway that something had hurt Matthew, and so set out to make it right.  Poor Alfred got the first blast from the Englishman, who had come to the conclusion that the two North American brothers had gotten into yet _another_ stupid argument.  Matthew never found out how that particular row ended.  All he did know was that Arthur’s quest for vengeance got derailed when both Alfred _and_ France claimed responsibility. 

The state of affairs between the French Republic and the United States were now somewhat tense.  After World War Two, Matthew and Alfred took to watching each other’s backs, and now Alfred was suspicious of France’s motives behind claiming responsibility of riling Arthur by affecting Matthew, creating tension between the two nations.

Arthur, unsure of whom to blame, settled everything by going after _both_ France and Alfred with a vengeance before retreating to London. 

April brought the G8 Conference again, with the United States hosting.  In order to avoid any potentially awkward encounters with France – the two hadn’t spoken at all in months – Matthew had hoped to just stay in a hotel on his side of Niagara Falls and drive down to New York City for the afternoon sessions.  He could also avoid Alfred’s interrogations this way as well.

Unfortunately, Alfred easily outsmarted his brother by announcing that he was moving the meeting location from New York to Washington D.C. (despite the many complaints from the others about canceling old hotel reservations and scrambling to book new ones.).

“Mattie?  Still with us?”

Matthew jumped at the sound of Alfred’s voice. “What?”

Alfred sighed and stretched out on the pool deck chair.  The nations had split up according to continent for meetings about centralized affairs, and the North and South American delegates were currently lounging by the hotel swimming pool.  Cuba and Alfred, in a rare, historic moment of unity, had agreed to take their meeting outside and enjoy the unusually warm weather.  They could always arrange their own meeting later after all, and weren’t obligated to do what the Europeans did (Alfred’s logic), such as sit around in a stuffy boardroom all day and yell at each other.  It didn’t hurt either that theirs was a small group to begin with.

“Izzy asked you a question, and you were spacing out on us,” Alfred patiently explained before putting his sunglasses back on.  “Just because we’re playing hooky doesn’t mean you can wander off too,” he added as their ‘sister’, the personification of Mexico, approached the two of them.

“Comfortable?” she asked, her hair still wet from her brief dip into the pool.

“Quite.”  Alfred smirked at her; he wasn’t moving any time soon.

Matthew gave her an apologetic smile as she sat down on the wet stone between the two pool deck chairs that he and Alfred were currently occupying.  He glanced back at the pool and watched as Argentina began poking Brazil while the latter was watching Cuba carefully.  It did help that there were only five North and South Americans present: Brazil and Argentina shared the representation for their continent, Mexico was the voice for her mob of siblings in Central America, and Cuba occasionally spoke for the rest of the Caribbean.

“So,” Mexico suddenly said, “You and _Francia_.  What happened?”

Matthew glanced at her.  “What are you talking about?”

Mexico sighed impatiently.  “ _España_ called me at three in the fuc- _freaking_ morning a while ago.  Apparently he was visiting _Francia_ when _Inglaterra_ scared the living daylights out of them both, when he was hunting _Francia_ ,” she said, cutting back on the intended swear as Puerto Rico, affectionately nicknamed ‘Rita’, came out of the glass doors from the indoor pool with Tony the alien in tow.  “Seeing as we rarely talk,” Mexico finally continued, “I was just curious if something had happened to provoke that.  I know it wasn’t _América_ because we both know exactly how he would have soothed _Inglaterra_ ’s anger over.”

Matthew rolled his eyes in slight irritation; why were the other nations starting to notice him _now?_   Mexico wasn’t the first; numerous nations had stopped him in the hotel’s halls to ask about what had happened.  It took him a little while to figure out that because France and Spain had been startled badly by Arthur’s explosive temper, Spain had called several nations just to have someone to freak out to.  Romano made the mistake of telling his brother, and everyone knew that Veneziano _loved_ to talk. 

“Nothing happened,” Matthew said firmly, hoping to end the conversation there.

“Hey Rita!” Alfred suddenly called before Mexico could speak.  “Remember that cool water trick you showed me the day we got here?  I think you should demonstrate it to Izzy, she hasn’t seen it yet!”

“No,” Mexico snapped as Puerto Rico perked up in interest and started coming over.  “Right now I am talking to-”

“But Izzy!  You _never_ want to see anything!” Puerto Rico whined while putting on a patented pout that Alfred always, without fail, succumbed too.  Matthew could see why.  “Besides, you promised last time that-”

“ _Fine.  Mi Dios,_ the things I go through for you, _Chiquita,_ ” Mexico said crossly as she got back up on her feet.  “ _Lo_ _siento_ _,_ Canada.  Rita, show me this stupid trick of yours…”

Matthew managed to stifle a snort when Puerto Rico mouthed ‘ _You owe me_ ’ to Alfred, who merely smirked and flashed thumbs up.  “Routine?” he asked once Mexico was out of earshot.

“Yeah.  She usually does that when Izzy and I start arguing over border control for the gazillionth time.  Something about maintaining peace in the household.”  He shrugged.  “But that’s beside the point.”  He sighed and then said, “Normally Mattie, I try to keep my nose out of your business because frankly, it’s boring.  That being said, I kinda feel that I have a right to know what set Arthur off since I was on the main receiving end of his temper.  I’ve tried talking to Francis, but he’s been mum about it too.  Just said he didn’t know what Arthur’s problem either and left it at that, but obviously he knows or he wouldn’t have claimed responsibility for whatever made Arthur mad.  You know I _hate_ being left in the dark.”

“Arthur greatly overreacted.  What happened wasn’t drastic enough to warrant that kind of response,” Matthew retorted.  He glanced at Alfred and then asked, “If you don’t know what happened, then why did you claim responsibility for making me upset?”

“’Cause I didn’t know that it was _you_ that Arthur was riled about.  I spoke up because I thought he found out that it was I and not a rogue moose that destroyed his cabin in Yukon,” Alfred said, grimacing at the memory.  “Kind of threw me for a loop when Francis spoke up too.  Then I realized it wasn’t my fault and rather something he did, and so we’re not quite back on close buddy-buddy terms yet.”

“I remember the cabin incident.  I still don’t know or remember why I covered for you,” Matthew replied.

“Well, he knows about it now.  Among a few other accidents and incidents that I’d been keeping a secret,” Alfred said, visibly deflating in his deck chair.

Matthew cringed.  “And how did he take that?”

“Not very well.  Punishment is no sex for six months.  Got four more left to go.  It’s absolute torture,” Alfred said, his voice ending in a slight whine.

Matthew sighed.  “Here’s a better question: _why_ did you tell him?”

“I dunno.  He just randomly showed up on my doorstep all angry and I didn’t know why so I just stood there and immediately started apologizing for everything, just to cover all my bases since I didn’t know which one he knew about.  Long story short: I panicked.  I didn’t know that he was worried about you.  But enough about me.  What happened to set him off?” Alfred asked.

Matthew hesitated, unsure if he should say something.  “Nothing that concerns you happened.”

Alfred looked put out at the lack of gossip.

The two fell quiet again, watching Puerto Rico cajole Mexico into getting back into the water.  Matthew didn’t know whether he could trust Alfred not to shoot his mouth off if he _did_ tell Alfred after all about that night in Orléans.  The worst-case scenario would be if Alfred told Arthur (among a few others) and both North American brothers would have to physically restrain Arthur from charging after France and starting _another_ Hundred Years’ War.  And it wouldn’t be because of France’s rejection but because of the fact that France _thought_ about doing… _that_ with a nation under Arthur’s rule.

And it wasn’t even France’s fault to begin with.  Matthew distinctly remembered making the first move.

“Matt?”

Matthew jumped before looking over at his brother.  “What now?”

Alfred pulled himself up into a sitting position.  “Can you come help me get some food?  The hotel manager said I’m not allowed near the buffet anymore without responsible supervision.  Y’know, to keep me from eating most of it again,” he said, lifting his sunglasses, accidentally revealing the faint lines where his sunglasses had been against his sunburn in the process.

“Why not just bring your own food?  You know, from your house that’s what, two miles from here?”

“ _Three_ miles from here.  And I don’t go to that house if there’s a meeting here because I’m trying to reduce my carbon footprint,” Alfred replied innocently. 

As they got up and started to walk into the hotel, Matthew remembered that Arthur and Alfred used to be brothers in the same way that Matthew and France apparently still were.  But then the Revolution occurred, breaking that relationship completely.  Did that help them, years later, when they finally owned up to their feelings for one another?  Did the Revolution make it easier for them to see each other as independent entities and not as brothers?  Matthew supposed that his (very loose) equivalent of the Revolution was France’s loss in the Seven Years’ War.  Matthew remembered hurting when France didn’t take him back when given the chance.  But Matthew hadn’t been so angry that he’d disowned France as a brother.

“Hey Al?  I’ve got a question or two for you about you and Arthur,” Matthew said as they left the indoor pool and entered the hotel dining room. 

“Hmm?  I thought that you got all squicky when thinking about the two of us like that,” Alfred said, only paying half attention; the buffet table was looking extremely tempting right now, still full of morning foods and pastries. 

“Yeah, but I think I can ignore that long enough to ask the questions.”  Matthew hesitated, and then asked, “When did Arthur stop seeing you as a brother after you were both reunited in World War One?”

Alfred paused, clearly caught off guard about the question.  “Um, not until the fifties I think.  After he, uh, lost a large chunk of his empire and Churchill kept nudging us to work together more often,” he said.  “Why?”

“Just wondering.”  There wasn’t much useful information in that answer.  “Who made the first move?”

“Me.  He was taking forever to do something, so I started things.  Or at least I tried to; he kept whacking me every time I approached him about that.  He even started avoiding me in case I brought up during a conversation about something completely different.  I finally told him that despite his beliefs, I was going to be patient and wait for him.  Turned out he was just reconciling himself with the fact that we weren’t brothers, and it was okay to return his feelings without being judged,” Alfred said, grabbing a plate at the end of the line.  “The problem with Francis however, is that since he’s the ‘country of l’amour’, he probably knows every trick in the book, and how to exploit or avoid them.  It doesn’t help that you haven’t talked to him since the Incident.”

“Hey!  I do talk to him, just not as frequently as I used to, but that’s understandable because Arthur has been piling more work on me lately,” Matthew protested as Alfred began to pick out food for his plate.

“I meant that you talk less, if at all, to _Francis_ , not France.  As Arthur’s drilled into my head countless times before, speaking through diplomatic channels only does not count as friendly ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ conversations.  Too many humans around, it’s impersonal,” Alfred said, popping a few doughnut holes into his mouth before putting a handful on his plate.  “And I know for a fact that Arthur has been _way_ too busy figuring how what the heck is going on at his place this summer to make sure you’re actually doing what you’ve been tasked with,” Alfred added as he continued down the buffet table.

“Al, just because you skip out on work when you can doesn’t mean that the rest of us do too,” Matthew said, feeling his patience beginning to thin.

“What are you and I doing right now?  The rest of the Americas?” Alfred pointed out, an iced long john in the tongs he was holding. 

“Fine, I’ll give you that.  But do you and Arthur ever stop to really think about it?  It doesn’t bother either of you that you were once brothers?”

“Mattie, it only bothers us when we think about it too much.  As I’ve told Arthur, it’s only icky when you think about it too much.”

“And it only took you what, one hundred years of forced isolation to get over being brothers?”  Matthew countered.

“Nuh-uh.  It took me eight years, and French and Prussian military assistance.  If you ever wanted the most effective and best way to break formal ties with the United Kingdom, it’s asking the French for help,” Alfred replied amiably as he studied the pile of guava pastries next to the cheese pastries. 

“Arthur isn’t going to be happy that you’re talking like that again.  It may be more than two centuries since then, but it’s still a touchy subject.  Especially with Washington being the ‘Father of the United States’ business, Arthur always takes it as an attack against his child-rearing skills,” Matthew warned.

“Why should I not say something?  Yorktown was two hundred and thirty-one years ago.  But you’re right, I should keep my mouth shut, but I think we both know that I won’t.  I’ve got the First Amendment after all.  But anyway, back to Francis.  His last treasured memory of you was when we were both still young, fourteen or fifteen I think.  Maybe he’s just reconciling the memory of you as a colony, you as a British soldier on the battlefields of World War One, and the you of, uh, now.” Alfred used a napkin to snag a couple of glazed doughnuts off their plate.  “And maybe he just doesn’t want to spoil the memories he has of you as a colony.  _Maybe,_ that is something Arthur is better at than Francis: separating the memories of the then and now and moving on,” Alfred finished, looking rather pleased with himself.

Matthew stared at him.  “How the hell did you arrive to _that_ conclusion?”

“Sometimes having the reputation of an oblivious dolt can reap unexpected rewards.  Others talk when they don’t think you’ll listen, and you pick up tons of info that way.  That and several of my past bosses thought I was mentally unstable when I told them I was the personification of the United States so they usually ended up sending me to a psychologist, and I usually hang out with them instead of getting psychoanalyzed,” Alfred said nonchalantly as he took a couple of bagels off their tray and onto his growing plate.

Matthew opened his mouth to interrogate Alfred about the psychologists – this was news to him – when he realized something.  “What makes you think it was France that I was talking about?  I never said anything about him,” he demanded.

“Well, I kinda assumed it was him, and figured I was correct when you went along with it without ever correcting me,” Alfred replied innocently, pausing long enough to give Matthew a knowing look.  “If it’s not Francis, then _who_ is it?”

Matthew narrowed his eyes; irritated that Alfred had successfully boxed him in.  “You keep indicating that you know what happened, yet you told me that you don’t.  So which is it?” he demanded.

Alfred shrugged.  “All I know is Francis Bonnefoy was involved, as were you.  _Anything_ could have happened, this is Francis we’re talking about, remember?”

“And what _exactly_ are you saying about the frog?  Something _I_ should know about?” a cold, curt voice cut in.

The color drained from Alfred’s face as fast as Matthew’s stomach dropped at the accented interruption.  Both North Americans turned to find Arthur Kirkland standing there, taking in the (very) obvious swimwear on both and the loaded pastry plate in Alfred’s hand.  “You know, I came down here to enjoy the peace and a quick snack since Germany was _kind_ enough to grant us a thirty-minute mid morning break.  Instead, I come down here to find you not only stuffing your face and cutting _your own meeting,_ but forcing… your brother into breaking rules with you,” Arthur snapped, narrowing his green eyes at Alfred.

Alfred smirked.  “Hard to cut a meeting that’s not happening,” he replied. 

Matthew stepped forward.  “That is to say we, uh, relaxed the rules enough to enjoy the weather outside.”

Alfred shrugged and said, “Same diff.”

Arthur let out a forced sigh and said, “Michael, I need to talk to your brother about his apparent lack of propriety while outside of the house.  Also, the manager is looking for you because your bear is apparently wandering around loose on your floor,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose while closing his eyes in exhaustion.

“Matthew.”  At Arthur’s puzzled look, Matthew patiently repeated, “My name is Matthew.”

Arthur sighed again while Alfred started sniggering.  “I am sorry Marlowe,” he said, and then aimed a smack at Alfred, who finally exploded into laughter, the pastry plate wobbling dangerously.  “Dare I ask what is so _funny, git?”_ he snarled.

“He just corrected you and you _still_ got his name wrong,” Alfred managed between snorts, only to duck Arthur’s second swing.

Matthew took that as his cue to leave, especially before Alfred’s ‘snack’ went flying.  He had a rogue bear to catch after all.

He turned around and walked straight into someone.  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see-”

“Ah, _Mathieu,_ ” France said, smiling as Matthew stumbled backwards in surprise.  “I trust you are well?”

Smiling but still guarded and polite, as he had been when Matthew last saw him. “Oh, you know, the usual,” Matthew said, voice stuttering at first.  “Jeanne is trying to fly, her wing’s almost healed, but the veterinarian I work with doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to go back to the wild.  Um, and Kuma is apparently running around loose upstairs so I have to-”

“Canada,” France interrupted, effectively cutting off the stream of babble; Matthew could only remember four other times in world history that France ever addressed him by his country name; once during the American Revolution, twice during World War One, and once during the twenties, when Alfred had been mulling over the possibility of withdrawing back into isolationism, taking Matthew with him (it didn’t matter that Matthew was still part of the British Empire, he was on North America).  Today made Instance Five.

“I am glad to hear that things are going well,” France said cordially.  His face softened, and he said, “Do call?  I feel that we have much to discuss and catch up on.”

Matthew had a brief moment of panic.  Had France been there for Alfred’s attempt at psychoanalysis, and both brothers just missed seeing him?  Matthew knew he couldn’t ask France either: if he did, France would get curious and pester Alfred for the details.  Only God knew what Alfred would say.  “That sounds nice, we should definitely do that,” he said, hoping France wouldn’t notice the buried panic. 

He didn’t seem to.  “I assume that your house and cell numbers are the same?” he asked.

“Y-yeah.  Same with you?”

 _“_ _Oui_.  I look forward to your call,” he said pleasantly before glancing past Matthew.  “I believe the hotel manager is coming over here to discuss your liberated bear.  Either that or _Amérique_ ’s high consumption level of the morning leftovers has irritated him again.” 

Matthew turned, and sighed.  The manager was definitely coming toward him; the man’s face was reddened with constrained rage and he held a dog collar and leash in his hands.  “No, he’s definitely coming for me,” Matthew said, irritated that the only time people ever noticed him was when was if he or Kumajirou were either in trouble, or the topic of the latest round of gossip.  The same went for remembering his name.

“Good luck,” Francis murmured, a feather-light sensation drifting through Matthew’s hair.  It happened so quick he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it or not.  Then France disappeared right as the manager arrived, yelling and waving the leash around.

Matthew could figure out whether the sensation was real or not later.

* * *

The siege had begun.

She had been sitting on the living room windowsill, enjoying the peace and quiet since the big white brute was gone.  She’d been about to test her wings again when she sensed it.  The distant battlefield had been silent for several months, bringing the unspoken war to an abrupt standstill.  Recently however, there had been a new flare-up on the front lines, in the form of a city besieged from within to keep the opponent out. 

She had broken through a siege once, in another lifetime, a half-remembered lifetime.  Wondering, she stretched her wings as though to test them, but found to her dismay they were not ready yet.  So she folded them back and continued to sit on the windowsill, gazing south, waiting for the day to come when she could finally break the siege once again.

There was no room for failure.


	4. L’été

Silence.

It was all Francis Bonnefoy really needed to ease his headache (50% genuine ache, 50% hangover), and the small Catholic church hidden away in the English countryside seemed to satisfy that need.  Granted, it was a bit of a drive from Olympic Village where Francis was staying with his athletes, but nevertheless it was worth the effort.  The opening ceremonies for the Summer 2012 Olympic Games had been the night before, followed with an impromptu after party (nations only, Gilbert had smuggled in alcohol from God knew where).  But the ceremonies themselves had been incredible, and even Francis had to admit to himself that England had outdone himself this year.

Not that he would ever admit that to England’s face.  England was probably just enjoying the fact that it was the first time he’d had the Olympics since 1948.

Through the small church’s glass-stained windows, Francis could see that despite it was toward the end of July going into August, it was still threatening to rain outside.  For once, Francis didn’t mind; the rhythmic pattering of water against the roof and echoing through the building always comforted him, in a strange way.  The patter always reminded him that no matter how bad things may seem, the rain could wash it all away and leave only peace behind.

To be honest, Francis hadn’t attended church regularly in a while – both world wars broke that habit, and he’d been too busy recovering and rebuilding after – but today, he just needed a moment away from everyone else to clear his head, and he went to the one place he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed.

Admittedly though, his thoughts were not on God at the moment, but rather a fair-haired nation he’d been watching last night.

Canada certainly looked well, better than he had in the spring.  Francis hadn’t seen him in London until last night during the after party, when the North and South American countries were huddled off in the corner of the room (plotting most likely, Gilbert mentioned something about a reckless, spur-of-the-moment bet he’d made with America, something that involved a competition over gold medals).  It was nice to see Canada smiling again though, and Francis found himself missing that smile more than ever, especially when it used to be for him. 

The last time Francis had seen Canada in Washington D.C., the boy had been caught off guard and looked strangely guilty about something, trying his best to shrug it off.  America hadn’t been forthcoming with details either when Francis asked him, but England had told him that the North American brothers had been discussing _him_.  Unfortunately, not amount of persistent… pestering could force any more information from the stubborn Brit.  Francis figured he had a pretty good idea though, considering what happened that night in Orléans in December.  Canada had done well concealing his emotions after Francis’s rejection, but Francis could still catch the flash of hurt before the Canadian’s hasty retreat. 

Actual familial ties between nations were extremely rare.  There were the Beilschmidt brothers (whom, if Gilbert was to be believed, had ties to a few others as well), England had his small mob of siblings (actually, now that Francis thought about it, both Ireland and North Ireland would hunt him down if he ever said that in their earshot), the Italian twins, and the North American siblings, the three oldest being Canada, America, and Mexico.  Related siblings were defined as having come from the same land as each other, even if they didn’t always share the same last name.

So despite there being no blood ties between him and Canada, it had been at first to accept the fact that Canada was no longer the little brother Francis remembered leaving at the end of the Seven Years’ War.  Francis still remembered the Canadian’s care after World War Two and he had treasured every moment with Canada during the long recovery.

_So then why did you push him away when he came to you?_

There had been two factors that had instantly come to the forefront of his mind when Canada kissed him.  Francis had tried but failed to overcome them both at the same time, and as a result pushed Canada away.

The first was the former colonial ties between them.  The ties were old now, but still hovered there in a silent reminder.  For this, Francis knew better than to ask England or even react like he did (those years had been stressful with the tension between America and England), so instead he turned to Antonio, a close friend who had fallen _hard_ for his former Italian territory, Lovino.  At first, Francis had gotten lucky because Antonio was actually _helpful_ (for once) and answered Francis’s questions without teasing the Frenchman.  His answer to how he’d moved past the old relationship was simple: _I love him, and he loves me.  No problem._ Then, right as the discussion got more involved, England had barged into the chateau, scaring both Francis and Antonio out of their wits and effectively ending all conversation.

Despite that incident, Antonio still had the right idea.  Accept the fact that there used to be a brotherly relationship and move on. 

The second factor was the harder of the two.

While he’d had no physical relationship with her but more of a spiritual one, Francis had still felt something deep with his champion, Jeanne d’Arc.  Deep enough to feel the heart-wrenching pain when she’d died at the stake in English hands.  It had taken him many years to eventually forgive the Burgundy family for selling her to the English, leading to her death, but it had been the first step on the road to recovery.  But he never committed to a long-term relationship of any kind after that; human lives were too fleeting and he never trusted his fellow nations enough to truly love them.  The resulting pain of a death or betrayal would only haunt him for years to come.

Perhaps that was why he never saw this happening?

_Did I let you slip through my fingers again, my dear Mathieu?_

“ _Mon dieu,_ ” Francis groaned aloud.  He’d come here to escape the stress, not dwell into it further.  Sensing that his thoughts were not going to leave him in peace now, Francis stood up quietly and murmured a soft prayer before turning to leave.  He would have to keep at a polite distance from Canada until he had this all sorted out, which could take a while.  Then, in the event he found that he could not move on, he will have not further misled the Canadian, and he wouldn’t have England charging down him (or America for that matter) again.

He was almost to the church entrance when he heard a haunting cry behind him.

Startled, he turned only to find that the sun had slipped from the cloud cover, casting a shaft of sunlight through the stained glass window above the altar, illuminating the dust motes in the air and coloring the floor below.  But Francis didn’t notice that; instead he saw a faint yet defined outline of a familiar armored woman, a sight he hadn’t seen in hundreds of years.  Her name, famous throughout time, was caught in his throat.  Instead of speaking, he knelt while never breaking eye contact as the figure turned to face him, a soft, half-remembered light dancing across her eyes as she whispered familiar words to him. 

Francis felt a light caress brush across his face before the spell broke completely and time resumed.

He remained there for a moment, his head bowed in silent reverence.  He felt lighter, calmer, as though a burden had been removed and he was free to move forward. 

A familiar bird-like trill caught his attention and brought him back to the outskirts of London, England.  Looking up, he was rather surprised to find Jeanne the loon settled comfortably on the first step leading up to the altar, red eyes watching him carefully.  Francis knew it was her and not another (greatly) misplaced North American loon because while she watched him cautiously as he approached her, she did not move or otherwise react as Francis knelt by her side.  “What are you doing here, _ma cherie?”_ he asked, gently wrapping his hands around her.  She still didn’t resist as he picked her up and then left the church altogether, carrying her to the car.

“Does _Mathieu_ know where you are, silly bird?” Francis asked, getting into the driver’s seat and setting Jeanne down in the passenger seat.  Then he turned on the ignition and promptly left the church.

Jeanne was remarkably calm for a bird that had just escaped her caretaker.  Francis supposed that in a way, her escape was good news as it proved her wings were completely healed now.  Not once did she make a sound during the ride, not even a soft chirp.  Instead, she seemed content to sit and look around at her leisure, even though Francis suspected that she could not see out the window from the angle she was seated at.  Whatever the case, she seemed happy, and Francis did nothing to discourage her.

Olympic Village was not too far of a drive.  Even as he was pulling into the parking lot reserved for the French athletes, only twenty-five minutes had passed since his departure from the church.  Before he got out of the car however, Francis wrapped Jeanne in his light jacket, careful not to hurt her.  He didn’t want to risk losing her _now_ just because the hustle and bustle of Olympic Village spooked her. 

He kept Jeanne close to his side as he lightly climbed the two flights of metal stairs that led to his quarters and the balcony that made crossing the village easier all while keeping an eye out for Canada.  There were very few other personifications out and about also, it was close to lunch, and fewer still were talking easily with each other; sometimes the spirit of competition ran too high for common civility, which really was a shame.  Even the humans saw the Olympics as friendly competition and they saw the Games as fostering good relations between countries.  On the other hand however, the most of the personifications saw the Games as a method of petty revenge against each other for perceived slights in the past and present.

Francis had no doubt that the great Ice Hockey Incident of ’08 and ’10 was going to rear its ugly head this year between America and Canada. He didn’t know how, but he knew it would.

Humming a soft lullaby – Jeanne was squirming in the jacket again – Francis stopped by his room long enough to drop off his personal effects before adjusting his grip on the bird.  She stopped struggling again, and Francis checked around, wondering if she’d seen her caretaker and calmed down.

But he did not see the Canadian anywhere.

Francis wasn’t too concerned about not finding Canada on his own; his first plan of action was to ask his brother.  Then, if Francis happened to be extremely lucky in the event that America didn’t know, then England would be with the American and supply the information without Francis ever asking him.  This plan of course relied on two things: 1) America started that line of discussion with England and 2) England did in fact know where Canada was.  If Francis were losing the track of conversation, he’d just start an argument between the two.  Even though they were years into their relationship, America and England made it too easy to start a fight.

He paused when he rounded the corner to another balcony; Gilbert Beilschmidt was standing on the railing, peering down toward the ground.  _His_ pet bird, Gilbird, was perched precariously on its master’s head.  “Gilbert, _mon ami_ , that is simply inviting trouble,” Francis said, gliding over to the railing to stand next to the Prussian, who acknowledged Francis with a grunt.  “Now what are you doing?”

“Taking a look at the competition.  Zwingli arrived a few hours ago with Specs and the Hungarian she-witch.  Their athletes were at the ceremonies yesterday, but they weren’t,” Gilbert said while carefully pointing to the parties in question down in the courtyard and maintaining his balance on the railing at the same time. 

Francis glanced down, and smirked when he failed to spot a certain nation who was usually with the Swiss personification.  “I see that Mademoiselle Zwingli is not with her brother today?”

“Nah, she’s here.  Just dropping her bags off in their room.”  Gilbert glanced over at Francis and said, “What the hell are you carrying?”

“One of _Mathieu_ ’s pets.  She escaped and I am trying to return her.  Do you know where he is?” Francis asked, allowing Gilbert to see Jeanne before tucking her away again.

Gilbert frowned.  “Where is who?” he asked.

Francis sighed.  “ _Amérique’s_ brother.”

“Oh, _him_.  Well, I haven’t seen him or that bear all day.  Have you asked Jones?  He’s hunting down some edible food, his words not mine.”  Gilbert jumped down from the railing and pulled Francis back out of sight right as Switzerland looked up in their direction, no doubt sensing them nearby. 

“ _Merci_.  Now if you will excuse me, I have to find _Mathieu_ before he finds his pet missing,” Francis said before turning to leave.

“Hey, before you go, I’ve got a question about you and the kid,” Gilbert said.  When Francis glanced back at him over his shoulder, Gilbert asked, “Is there something going on between the two of you?”

Francis arched an eyebrow.  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Gilbert scowled.  “ _Well_ , I _was_ minding my own business when Antonio more or less trashed not only the front door but _my_ basement door with his stupid axe in an effort to hide from England.  West was _pissed_.  Anyway, Antonio said you and he had been talking about him and Lovino, and I figured something happened between…Al’s brother and you.  Didn’t take a genius to figure that out,” Gilbert tilted his head before he asked, “Or is it private?”

“For now, _mon ami,_ it is,” Francis replied.

Gilbert nodded.  Then he glanced back down at Switzerland’s group.  “Well, good luck with that.  I’m going to go down and say hi to Specs.  Give him a taste of Lizzie’s cast-iron medicine.”

“ _Sil te plait,_ try not to get yourself killed,” Francis said before he left again.

He was walking back down another flight of stairs when Canada came around the corner on his way up, Kumajirou bounding up the stairs behind him.  “Ah, _Mathieu_ , a word?” Francis asked, easily catching the Canadian’s closest free-swinging arm.  He allowed the surprised Canadian’s momentum to lightly spin the two in a small circle.

“Huh? Oh, okay, what is it?” Canada asked, his expression becoming slightly guarded.

Francis ignored the slight twinge that the other’s expression caused.  “I found Jeanne this morning, and so I brought her back,” Francis explained, presenting the bundled loon to the Canadian.

Canada frowned as he stared at the bird… and then his face broke out into a broad grin.  “Well, that explains why some of my swimmers were acting a little skittish earlier when I went to go watch practice with the coach.  _Merci beaucoup,”_ he said, gingerly accepting the bundle from Francis, Jeanne crooning softly.  She let out a cry of protest (or fear) as Kumajirou stretched his neck in an attempt to sniff the loon curiously.  “Thanks.  She came with me frequently when I went to go watch the swim practices and trial runs for the Olympics.  The guys got attached to her, and she sort of became the unofficial mascot for the team.”  Canada grimaced and said, “Alfred doesn’t exactly know that I brought her, so thanks for bringing her back without telling him.”

Francis smiled.  “No problem at all.”  He frowned thoughtfully, before asking, “Would you care to join me for lunch and a trip to the coast for this afternoon?”

Canada raised an eyebrow.  “You want to go sightseeing in _England?_ ” he asked, eyebrows up in disbelief.

Francis smirked.  “Did I say we’d be in England?  I do have a car you know, and the Chunnel isn’t _too_ far from here.” _Small steps now, don’t frighten him…_

Matthew smiled softly.  “I’d like to do that,” he said finally, but with a small note of hesitancy in his voice.  He glanced down at the patient bundle in his hands and said, “I’ve got to let Jeanne out first, in my rooms.”

“I will wait here.  You can leave Kumajirou here as well so that he won’t try to attack Jeanne again,” Francis assured him, and then walked to the railing that overlooked the small courtyard.  The white bear lumbered behind him, and settled down to nap while the Frenchman looked down again. 

 _Everything will be all right,_ he thought to himself as he noticed that the group from earlier was still down on the ground, talking.  The female personification of Liechtenstein had rejoined her brother, and was standing patiently beside him, head bowed slightly as she cupped a familiar yellow chick, and she was smiling softly.  _Time can mend and time can heal._

Francis glanced at where he last saw Gilbert, and saw to his puzzlement that the Prussian had abandoned his post already.  Confused, Francis glanced down at the group, and found that Gilbert was still in the game, just not as a spectator anymore.  Instead, the Prussian was sneaking up on Hungary, who was in the middle of mediating a heated ‘discussion’ between Switzerland and Austria.  With careful and slow movements, Gilbert managed to snag, and unclasp the familiar black cast-iron frying pan from Hungary’s belt.  He swiftly and silently aimed a strike at Austria’s head right as Hungary turned away from Switzerland and back to Austria as though to ask him another question.

_Clong!_

_“Mon dieu_ ,” Francis breathed as Hungary was pitched forward into the arms of a surprised Austria.  Gilbert swore, dropped the frying pan as though it had burned him, and took off as Hungary quickly recovered her wits and snatched the pan back up to instigate pursuit.   Then, if that wasn’t enough, Gilbert paused long enough in his escape to scoop up an unsuspecting Liechtenstein, who shrieked in surprise but soon started laughing as she wrapped her arms around Gilbert’s neck, Gilbird flying along above the two.  Switzerland however was _not_ amused, and promptly took off after them instead of reaching for his trusty rifle.

“Did I just miss something?” Matthew asked, reappearing at Francis’s side.  Alerted by his master’s presence, Kumajirou pulled himself up to his feet and bumped his nose against Matthew’s leg in a bid for attention.

“ _Non._   Just life moving on as normal,” Francis said, watching as the courtyard exploded into an uproar when Switzerland collided into an oblivious-as-usual America.  “Let’s go now, while the others are causing a nice distraction for _Angleterre_ ,” Francis murmured into Matthew’s ear as Feliciano, alerted by the noise, came running out with the sole intent of adding to the din.

“Good idea,” Matthew muttered back.

After double-checking that England was nowhere in sight, Francis ushered Matthew back up the stairs so they could both take the shortcut across the complex and leave.

_Take it one step at a time._

* * *

Her work here was done.

Her wings were healed, and her duty was fulfilled.

The war was won, and she was going home soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I went with the idea that since the country of France had been (and I believe still is) majorly Catholic. No offense was intended here.
> 
> ‘Ice Hockey Incident of ’08 and ’10’: In the Winter Games in Vancouver, Canada beat America in the ice hockey finals. Two years (I believe) later, the Boston Bruins beat the Vancouver Canucks in the Stanley Cup finals. There’s this great comic on deviantArt that has Alfred and Matthew watching the last Stanley Cup game, and at first, Matthew accepts the loss gracefully. But then Alfred makes an ice pun, and then the next panel shows the coffee table sailing toward an oblivious Alfred’s head.
> 
> This chapter (and story) was written in July 2012, so I apologize for any inaccuracies with the Olympics.


	5. Les saisons

_Drip, drip, drip…_

The sound of melting ice was the first thing up that Matthew Williams woke up to.  He didn’t need to look outside the curtained window to know that spring had finally arrived again after another short autumn and long winter that had succeeded an exciting summer Olympics.  But the good thing though was that at least he hadn’t had to face the winter alone again like he’d done last year. 

Francis had courted him carefully, and was subtle enough that Matthew had missed it in the beginning.  Matthew had been torn between letting Francis closer and distancing away, just in case this was nothing but a cruel trick on the Frenchman’s part (the rejection that one December still burned clearly in his memory).  Unfortunately on Francis’s part, the game was blown to high heaven when _Alfred_ of all nations caught on without Francis’s knowledge and accidentally let the secret slip to Arthur, reawakening the cold fury that was the British Empire.  Arthur would have brought the full force of his wrath onto Francis’s head if both Alfred and Matthew easily distracted and waylaid the enraged Brit. 

Alfred had company for the night, and Matthew got to keep Francis in the world of the living, so both brothers went home happy that night.

As it turned out however, Arthur apparently (still) felt threatened and was convinced that Francis was slowly trying to reduce the size of the British Commonwealth by taking one nation out at a time, starting with Canada. 

Francis had been tempted to tell Arthur that he was honored that Arthur still saw him as a worthy adversary.  Matthew had advised him not to push his luck.

Glancing at the clock, Matthew nearly groaned aloud that it was almost nine.  Granted, it was a Saturday, but Matthew had been planning to get up early so that he could let Kumajirou out so he and Francis could enjoy breakfast without the bear begging for scraps.  Kuma had upended the table last night; Matthew wasn’t looking forward to a repeat so soon…

He started to get up to shower and get dressed, but an arm wrapped around his waist and tugged him back down into the bed.  “Francis, it’s almost nine.  Time to get up,” he protested weakly.

Francis muttered something about time zones and six-hour flights before pulling Matthew back into the warm nest of covers.  Matthew gave a half-hearted struggle; he knew exactly what was going to happen if he didn’t get out of bed in time to let Kumajirou out.  “Francis, you have to at least let me out…” he began.

“ _Non_.  A few more minutes,” Francis grumbled, retreating further into the blanket nest and taking Matthew deeper with him. 

Matthew could only hold his breath and brace himself for the inevitable impact; he could hear the thundering paw-steps down the hall…

_WHUMP!_

“ _Mon_ _dieu_ _!”_ Francis spluttered more curses in French as Kumajirou landed right on top of the two of them and began pawing through the covers with sharp claws.  “ _What?_ _Qu’est-ce_ _qui se passé?_ ” he complained as Kumajirou finally clawed the edge of the covers back and stuck a cold nose into Matthew’s and Francis’s faces. 

“Yeah… Kuma generally gets me out of bed if I don’t let him outside fast enough,” Matthew admitted sheepishly, trying not to laugh too hard as Kumajirou easily burrowed into the covers, chasing Francis out of the other side.  “But I usually don’t let him near the sheets, just the covers.  I’ll change those later today,” he added as Kumajirou crawled back out from underneath the covers and settled down on top of the bed, impatience clearing visible in the tension in his muscles.  He _really_ wanted to go outside. 

 _To chase more birds, now that they’re coming back,_ Matthew thought grimly.  He knew the migrating birds were going to arrive soon for the oncoming spring, and felt slightly saddened that a certain loon was most likely not coming back with the other migrating birds. 

Jeanne.  Matthew paused by the bedroom window, opening it to let in the fresh air as he remembered everything.  In early September, after Matthew had returned from London, he’d met with the vet several times to go over his options; according to the vet, Jeanne was not strong enough to make the annual journey, and her chances of death were greater than if her wing had never broke.  Forget predators, one mistake and her wing could snap again, leaving her helpless on a road or near another dog.  The vet had brought up the possibilities of rehabilitation along with clipped wings to prevent premature flight.  Matthew had agreed to meet with the vet the next day in order to sit down and go through all of his options.

But that night, Jeanne escaped.

Matthew hadn’t even left a window or door open.  She was just _gone_ the next day, as though she’d escaped through Kuma’s custom-built doggy-door.  The vet had been just as stunned about the escape, and Francis mused aloud (much to the vet’s irritation) that perhaps the vet had made a grievous error concerning Jeanne’s health. 

If Matthew didn’t remember taking care of Jeanne, it would be as if she had never been there in the first place.

He’d remarked this to Francis after the vet left; that it felt as though he’d imagined the whole year with her.  Francis had merely smiled and said, “Jeanne truly was a remarkable lady, was she not?”  He leaned closer to Matthew, who flushed at the close proximity, and whispered, “A warrior, just like her namesake.”  Then he’d kissed Matthew, who promptly forgot about everything else except Francis and his wandering hands.

At the moment though, in the spring of 2013, Matthew looked distracted; he was staring out the window with his clothes still in his hands.  Francis almost continued walking toward the shower, but stopped when he noticed a faint pink blush crossing Matthew’s face.  Interested now, Francis sidled up behind Matthew and pulled him flush against his body, earning a squeak from the Canadian.  For a moment, he just stood there, silently relishing the Canadian’s proximity and still half-disbelieving that they were standing there, together.  But rather than dwell on the past and its closed chapters, he faced only future now.  “What are you thinking about?” he finally whispered into Matthew’s ear, enjoying the darkening blush against Matthew’s face.

“The day that Jeanne left… more like what happened later in the evening,” Matthew mumbled, squeaking again when Francis placed his hands on Matthew’s shoulders and began rubbing them soothingly.

“I am afraid that I do not quite remember what happened that night.  Perhaps you could… refresh my memory?” Francis whispered into Matthew’s ear.

Matthew swallowed.  “I thought you were going to shower.”

Francis smirked.  “No reason we can’t do both at the same time.”

Matthew’s face burned redder, but he still smiled as he followed Francis anyway.

Kumajirou watched the two nations head toward the bathroom from his perch on the bed before groaning and burying his head underneath the nearest pillow, pinning it down over his head (and ears) with his paws.  There had been a very good reason why he wanted to go outside before this happened.

He did _not_ want to listen to _this_ again.  Once was enough, thank you very much.


End file.
